All We Were Has Washed Away
by courageousgrace
Summary: Fog drifts in; rain batters the roof of the bereft house. Bella drifts outside to stand, there, where last Edward pressed a kiss against her lips. /// Edward sacrifices himself to save his family and Bella. Edward/Bella; Jacob/Bella.


"_Until your heart stops beating, Bella. I'll be here — fighting. Don't forget that you have options."_  
Jacob Black, _Eclipse_, Chapter 15, p.330

_"Regret for the things we did can be tempered by time; it is regret for the things we did not do that is inconsolable."_

-Sydney J Harris

* * *

Jacob Black no longer believes in miracles – not since his world disintegrated into meaningless shards, since he was no longer whole, now that he cannot draw breath without wincing at the vise around his heart. He has forsaken magic and hope, ever since his optimism imploded in on itself, decimating the spaces in between his faith and his determination, leaving behind only the emotional shrapnel still embedded in his skin and his mind and his bones, marking him just another casualty of a war he still is not sure anyone really won. Endless, blurred days of lying to himself – and everyone around him – and all for the sake of perpetuating a falsehood that no one, least of all himself, has ever –really- believed, have cleaved him into a thousand insignificant pieces. He spins deception around himself like spider webs, gossamer-thin strands, whispering, "I'm fine," and "I don't miss her," seductively enough, but the catch in his voice always gives him away.

Sam pretends not to notice, but his dark eyes take in everything, and leave Jacob without question as to where his leader stands on the issue. Leah tells him he's better off. Quil and Embry are understanding enough – _after all this time_ – to make him want to howl in frustration, flay his skin right off of his bones, to see if, then, he hurts more on the outside, finally, than on the inside. Instead, he merely clenches his teeth together, holding in everything he would say (_scream_) given the chance, because this way, he can breathe without doubling over in renewed pain.

He dreams of what will never be, unfound second chances, alternative paths he could have wandered down, in another lifetime. He wakes in the early morning stillness, blinking into the lazy, too-bright dawn and traces his steps back to where he faltered. His mind teems with _what-if's_ and _if-only's_. He knows he can never go back – that she will never _come_ back – and that the passing of years has only served to further erode any lingering bond between them. He understands that he should let her go…he just cannot fathom _how_.

His cause is lost, his battle long ago forfeit, but –

(_I should have done more, tried harder to stop you)_

His heart cleaved in mangled shards, but –

_(Is he enough for you?)_

He cannot remember what her skin felt like, _and_ _yet _–

(_Oh God, Bella, I miss you)_

Jacob wonders, still, what Bella remembers, if he has ever haunted her mind; it seems only fair, after all, as she is the wraith drifting through his. Does she ever wake, burning for his touch? She is frozen in time by now, he's certain, but does she ever mourn all that she left behind?

Bella has made her choices – he knows this all too well – and even so, understanding she chose a pale, lifeless eternity over an existence based on love, honor, and adventure with him, he cannot forget her, or close the wounds she inflicted on him. His heart is hers, until the last, mangled beat. Jacob is devoted to a failed dream, his fealty given over to her too long ago to forfeit the gesture now. He breathes, but does not rejoice; lives but does not thrive.

Bella left him stranded, unable to turn away from her memory, and in doing so, she has taken the best parts of Jacob Black with her, and all that remains are hollow bones and empty arteries, a fucked-up schema of a human being.

_____________________

_Three years, one hundred seventeen days ago_

The scream wakes her, and her first thought, barely untangled from whatever dream is already fading, is that the terror ensconced in that single wail is somehow more excruciating and terrorizing than anything she has experienced in the last years, through the seemingly endless battles, across the landscape of fear she is accustomed to, past the layers of anguish she has survived to reach this point in time.

Her second thought, more alarming perhaps than the first, is that she cannot feel Edward's arms around her. Bella's dark eyes open as her throat closes over, and she sits up in the opulent bed, the white sheet falling away from her form; jerkily, she swings her legs over the bed and stands, a tremble working within her legs toward a full-fledged shaking that she suppresses with a mighty mental shake.

By the time she pulls on a shirt and jeans and slides her feet into a worn pair of shoes, her heart is shuddering clumsily in her chest, attempting a coup d'état she struggles to prevent. Bella half-runs, half-stumbles out into the hallway, nearly tumbling down the stairs in her haste. The house is still – too quiet – as another of those agonized, broken screams pierces her ears, assaulting the last of her composure. A jolt of fear tangled with adrenaline spikes through her and she quickens her pace, fumbling with the doorknob before she manages to open it and step out into the too-bright sunlight. Her eyes require a too-long moment to focus; in the time that she is blind, a final, gurgling cry rips through the atmosphere, and then an eerie calm descends.

Bella inhales only when her lungs begin to burn and a quiet, velvet impression, worry mingled with fear, rockets through her perception.

"_Bella." _

She realizes, then, she has never heard Edward sound more petrified. There is a collective intake of breath from those gathered in a loose, ragged circle, and then it is too quiet, there in the sun-dappled yard, with the rays playing havoc with reality, shooting showers of sparks skyward, and out in every direction. All Bella can see when she shifts her eyes in any given direction are the embers, thrown off the Cullen's skin.

As she blinks, not yet used to the wide-open expanse of Alaska, and begins to understand and piece together what she is seeing, comprehension dawns. Carlisle is kneeling, protectively, his arms wrapped around Esme. His expression displays a sort of ferocity she has never seen evidenced on his perfect features. Emmett and Rosalie are tightly wound, ready to spring forward into the fray; Alice is rigid at Jasper's side, her eyes darting back and forth. Edward is in front of her before she can blink, his body angled protectively in front of hers but it is too late.

The Volturi have them surrounded.

Later, Bella will remember the entire incident not in strict details, but in the oddest, choppiest increments. She will remember breathing shallowly. Will remember Aro's outstretched hand, and Jane's glee as she creates vivid illusions of bruising pain in the minds of the Cullens, bringing to life nightmares best left hidden. Later, she will remember Esme's screams, Alice's hate, so clearly etched on her features, Aro's beseeching Bella to join them, forever, as she is "most remarkable." Later, she will remember the fear, banding so tightly around her chest, the urge to _run, run, run!, _shallow breathes wheezing in and out of her lungs. She will recall the feel of Edward's hand in her, his skin so cool against hers, overheated. She will ask herself, could she have done something differently, _better_?

Lastly, she will remember Edward stepping forward, Alice's cry of "Edward, no!", Edward offering to go in her place, a mind-reader for a human. She will remember his offer, the consideration on the faces of their enemies, Aro's small, satisfied smile, her protests – Esme's wail, Carlise's pleasant voice hiding an undertone of steel as he ordered Edward to reconsider. Edward's voice, so _calm_ as he agreed to go with them, in exchange for his family's safety – for Bella's safety. She will remember how she fell to her knees when Edward kissed her, and let go of her hand, how she begged him to stay as he retreated, as his form grew dim, and then disappeared from her line of sight. She will remember running after him, and fighting Emmett when he held her back. She will recall the way every one of the Cullens, -_her family_- deflated; lost, bereft.

She will remember, and blame herself.

_______________________

They are broken, each of them weighed mightily by the knowledge that one of their own has been taken – or perhaps sacrificed is the more appropriate term at this juncture. Jasper's face is more drawn than normal; all Alice's vitality is bleached away. Esme's features are tense, wrought with fear and concern for the son she cannot hold in her arms. Carlise's head is bent into his hands, worry evident in every breath; Rosalie is silent, but obviously fuming; Emmett has an arm around her in futile comfort.

Bella is ruined, her mind unable to cope with the understanding that Edward is gone, that he has left with the Volturi. It was to save her, save them, save everyone, and the nobility behind the act, the selflessness required to take such a step leaves her stunned. She is cold, without Edward, lost; nothing makes sense. She thinks that if she tells herself enough times that he is gone, that his sacrifice will begin to make sense.

_(Edward, why?)_

Fog drifts in; rain batters the roof of the bereft house. Bella drifts outside to stand, there, where last Edward pressed a kiss against her lips. Vaguely, she realizes the others have all attempted, one by one, to sway her inside, but she prefers the rain and the cold; she cannot stay there with the family, all become shadows.

Finally, they all leave her, and she stands watching patiently, eyes peering futilely into the dark beyond where her vision blurs, waiting for something

(_someone_)

that will never return.

_______________________

"Rosalie, I am sorry, so sorry." Carlisle is grave, somber.

"Emmett? _Emmett_! What happened to him?" Rosalie's voice cracks.

"They – they knew we would come. They were too strong. Aro, Caius, and the others, they were prepared for us. He fought, oh, Emmett fought but – "

"_Emmett? No! But he'll be okay, he will be fine…won't he?"_

Somewhere between sleep and awake, caught in fevered dreams and hushed realities, Bella doubts her own sanity, because brave, foolish Emmett _cannot _have fallen; simply put, it is impossible. She vaguely remembers hearing Carlisle plan with Emmett and Alice to rescue Edward…and the others were to stay behind to guard the house. She remembers being so sure of their success. Yet, if nothing else can convince her, it is Rosalie's grief, her keening wails, those dry, horrible sobs, the blurred sight of her holding Emmett's body, his chest rising and falling numbly, his eyes haunted, vacant; Rosalie, rocking brokenly back and forth, shoulders shaking, brutally persuades Bella of the awful truth, and, grasping this fact, she tumbles into oblivion.

_______________________

She is drifting, caught amidst wave after wave of confusion, pounding sloppily at her mind. Inside, there is nothing. No cold, no warmth. No comprehension, no fear. Words spoken around her wash over her, leaving no impression. Her only thought is a single name, a plaintive wish of what cannot be. On some level she knows this; but to survive, she blocks the knowledge.

_(Edward?)_

"Has she said anything yet?"

"Nothing. She doesn't appear to be coherent, or aware of her surroundings – she is as pliable as a doll, wide-eyed, empty."

"Carlisle, what do we do?"

Idly, Bella wonders who they are talking about. Not her, not her. She is not this vacant heart they speak of; she is a vessel, empty now, waiting to be filled, anticipating overflowing with love and gratitude, and purpose.

"We will wait," the rich voice intones, "and hope that she comes back to us."

_(Edward, where are you? I can't feel you there - )_

_______________________

"Bella? Bella," the lyrical tone trills, "if you can hear me, fight! You're sick, and you aren't getting any better. Bella, please, fight to live!"

_(Edward, wait for me, wait for me, I am coming!)_

Her breathing is labored, and something in her chest tugs upward. Static fills her beleaguered mind, the desperate plea forming by rote. The former need to reach up, out, to feel his hands clasped in hers begins to drain away slowly, so lethargically. How long she labors she cannot say, but finally, without meaning to, she finds she is straining to hear the melody of that female cadence again, as if the voice has somehow, impossibly, become her center in all of this madness.

"Alice?" It is the faintest of whispers, her voice hoarse from disuse.

"Oh yes, Bella! It's Alice; I'm right here with you. Now, fight Bella, come back to us!"

_(Edward, you aren't there, are you? Should I stay here, with them? Should I hold to this world? I – …)_

_______________________

Time passes. Slowly, and in fits and starts, jagged intervals that make little sense.

She is aware, comprehension returns first; gradually, she understands that the days are bleeding away, wasted, _ruined_ as _she _is devastated. Time passes and she cannot move; her breath is short and tainted in lungs that work sluggishly, a body that is betraying her loss of any form of vivacity.

Hours become days, sunrises and sunsets coiling around her like venomous snakes, drawing out of her the will to live, even as her detachment from this life begins to annoy her. She is _in-between_, watching her adopted family members speaking of her in hushed tones as Alice's mind, no doubt conflicted, shows her what is, and what may be.

Time pass, and Bella drifts, hopeless, floundering. The shore is within her sight and she cannot say why it is that she is half-heartedly aiming to reach that white, calm beach pasted so brilliantly across her mind. Nor can she recall why at first she sought to remain out here alone in this dark, beguiling ocean.

_(Edward?)_

One final, plaintive plea, and when there is no answering, velvet whisper, no sign of burning, ochre eyes, Bella finally begins to struggle in earnest to be renewed.

_______________________

Bella stirs, wakes slowly, swimming upstream, mired by an unfamiliar weariness, seeping through her form as if she has not rested in years. Her eyes open, and she whimpers at the sight of the harsh sunlight streaming through the room. Someone has opened all the curtains, and the warmth is a sensation she should know, but she would swear she has been cold for centuries. She reaches out one pale hand toward the golden haze, and then flinches because the effort is too much. She is drained, sapped; breathing is a battle.

But she is_ alive_.

And for now, that is enough. It is a _beginning_.

_____________________

_One year ago_

The beginning of each day is always the most grueling; but, it is not tearing himself loose from the unyielding grasp of his nightmares, or even waking up alone that he finds unbearable. What hurts the most, slicing the deepest, is breathing around the hollow space in his chest, because Jacob knows, - _he knows_ – why it exists, and too, that for him, there can be no healing. He is now as whole as he will ever be, and if there is a strange, numb consistency in that fact, in who he has become, what is lacking is any sense of satisfaction.

That every day is the same, he understand. But today… _today_ as Jacob sits up, the sheets falling away from his flesh, his dark eyes opening, today… There is a different feel to the morning, as if for once, this new day could be full of possibility. He breathes slowly, uncertain as to how to take this omen, and his eyes widen as he realizes that if he didn't know any better, he might call this emotion welling within him,_ hope_.

He rises, and stumbles into the bathroom, turning the water in the shower too hot. Stepping in, he scrubs at his skin, washing away the last vestiges of the dreams that plagued him the previous night. It isn't until he turns off the water and runs a towel through his hair that Jacob realizes he is breathing evenly, without pause. Reflexively, he rubs his chest; something inside has loosened, and he dresses in a state that mirrors stunned disbelief.

He isn't certain what's playing out here – if this is finally the day when his life might return to some semblance of normal – or if there is more at work, but when the knock sounds on the front door, he's just pulling a black t-shirt over his head. He buttons his jeans quickly, and pads, barefoot, to answer the door, sure it's just Quil or Embry or Leah, come to check on him. Scratching his cheek – _shaving, that's what he forgot_ – Jacob swings open the door, and the greeting he means to offer dies on his lips, which remain open, shock scorching through his form. Adrenaline is such a stranger to him that he almost does not recognize the feeling at first, so enraptured by the sight in front of him.

She is bleached of color, ten pounds lighter than she should be (he is immediately protective of her as if they had never parted), and her expression is one of mingled wariness and hope. Her eyes are guarded, something wild hovering around the edges, a wealth of untold secrets whorling within those dark, haunted gems. Her arms are wrapped around her middle and he is sharply reminded of the last time she looked this way – and he wonders if he can stitch her jumbled parts and pieces together once more.

Jacob takes in all the changes in her, weighs them for what they are, accepts the additions and the subtractions and then realizes it doesn't matter; after all, beyond these new layers, below her quiet anguish which he will heal, she is still _Bella_, still his heart. And now as ever that (_she_) is all that matters.

As the fog curls around them thickly, Jacob inhales, and her familiar scent permeates his awareness in an almost intoxicating rush. Before he can think through his impulse, he reaches for her, his hand barely grazing her shoulder. That's all it takes – she comes undone , falling against him, nothing in his arms, an ephemeral presence. He has imagines this so –many- times, just holding her close without words, that it is nearly impossible to convince himself she is real and here and with him, and not simply a dream to fill his void.

Jacob tightens his arms as much as he dares around her, and her head rests against his chest. Years have passed since they have stood this way, but he has not forgotten the shape of her, or the clean burning easing through him. His lips form her name, a husky "Bella," and then she is crying, her tears soaking his shirt, and as the sky weeps around them, Jacob Black is born again.


End file.
